Making of a Moon Monarchy
by onewitchcat
Summary: Cyprus hated their whispers. He knew he was better, evolved. He would show them who was best. (A story of how Cyprus Blackburn created his own throne.)


He's sitting on the pale blue cushions adorning the window seat, his back pressed to the cool wall, his feet up on the seat, and a thick volume of Earthen history perched on his lap, pressed to his thighs. He doesn't care much for the history-even if the planet _is_ where his predecessors were from-but his mother insists he learn it, _to connect to his ancestry._ He knows his grandparents, and to him, that's the furthest back he needs to know. His mother disagrees, though, and he's forced to read it.

He sighs, and turns his attention from the book he's reading to the blue planet peeking through the darkness, haloed by stars. He doesn't think much of it, disconnected from the feeling of being Earthen, the fifth generation of his family to be born on Luna.

He is Lunar in the purest sense of the word, even more than he knows.

He traces the countries(continents?) that are visible with his eyes, stopping at the outline of the EF, remembering how they were French aristocrats with Spanish blood. It's the root of their fine boned features, their silky brown hair, their honeyed skin. It's also the reason for their relative wealthiness now, and the respect that follows their family name.

He's proud of his heritage, their family's name, but he wishes it was something more. Certainly, his grandfather played a role in transition of Luna to country from a colony, but for all their achievements, they aren't doing anything for the country now.

And that burns him, roiling in his stomach, because he knows if they tried, he tried, he could reach heights. He could climb to the top, better than any leader Luna has ever had, better than the president Luna has now. The president, soft and meek, who bows to demands of the Earthen leaders as if they're still a colony and not a country.

But his parents have no aspirations, no goals, no ambitions, content with the mediocre life they're living.

He grits his teeth in irritation and shifts his gaze away from the blue planet, just as the door opens and his governess steps in. He's always known her, she's been his governess for as long as he remembers. He's sixteen now, and he really doesn't need her anymore, but his parents insist, paranoid as they are.

She looks different today, her dark hair pinned up and her green eyes made up. She's also wearing a plain summer dress, the kind she never wears, and he suspects she has a date. She offers a small smile and he arches an eyebrow in return. She scowls a bit, and he knows she's never liked that trick, but he still does it.

"I'm off on a date," she says sharply, her eyes daring him to make a joke about her age. She really isn't all that old, only recently turned 32, but he teases her regardless. Today, though, he refrains from spitting out a witty comment. Instead his expression shifts to one that says, _I should care, because?_ , a questioning glint in his eyes.

She stiffens, and tentatively, as if he's unpredictable, as if he's wild, as if he's _crazy,_ says, "Because of your….night terrors."

His countenance immediately darkens, his eyes becoming icy and sharp, and his pale pink lips pressing into a thin line.

He turns back to the window and sneers, "I'm not crazy."

"I know you aren't, but you _do_ have nightmares Cyprus," she says hesitatingly, her eyes concerned. He doesn't say anything, can't say anything to that tone when he knows all his words will be harsh, and instead closes the volume and shoves it off onto the cushions, before brushing past her into the hallway, every muscle tightened in barely reigned back anger.

He hears her calling for him, but he ignores her in favor of gracefully climbing the stairs, (always graceful, _nevernevernever_ brash), and heads to his room. He knows they think he's crazy, whispers of the _imperfect, violated, INSANE, poor little Cyprus_ forever following him around. He always ignores them, filing the whispers away in the shadowy part of his mind that holds his bad memories.

But a part of him wonders if they aren't wrong, if he really is crazy.

He sets his jaw and brushes the thought away, not dwelling on it. He tries to be empathetic, see it from their view, but he can't, won't, not when the experience has taken over his life, has made him miserable. Not when this unprecedented power it gave him changed him.

(He's not like them he knows. He's better.)

He walks to his bathroom, stripping his clothes and throwing them in the hamper, then runs a bath.

He soaks in the warm water, the smells of the scented oils wafting around him, and unwinds. He lies there, letting the velvety water caress him and take away his worries, if only briefly, enjoying what he can. He closes his eyes, reveling in the simple peace, peace he knows that can't last forever, but wants, _wants_ so bad.

When he has soaked enough to unwind, he gets up, wrapping a silky towel around his waist, and pads into his room, letting the towel fall to the floor before crawling into his bed. He knows no one can come in, and he decides he can have this one luxury for tonight.

The comforter is silky smooth on his skin, and the pillow is soft beneath his head and he falls asleep in no time.


End file.
